


breathe you in and eat you whole

by BlindSwandive



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (just a little), All I Want for Christmas is Kink, Biting, But she definitely goes on the 'nice' list this year, Caveman!Sam, Christmas is for happy endings, Comeplay, Cum Eating, Dirty Talk, First Time, Implied Masturbation, Internalized Gender Issues, Jealousy, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Only they forgot to get undressed first, Possessive Behavior, Repressed Dean Winchester, Rowena is naughty, Scent Kink, Stripping, showering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 19:36:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17106848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive
Summary: Written as part of the 2018 SPN Kink Christmas Exchange forLady Simoriah.To level the playing field against monsters, Sam agrees to let Rowena try out a spell on him that promises to heighten human senses to something closer to a monster or animal level.  The problem is, the spell just happens to have some beastly side effects.For the following kinks: scent kink, showering/getting wet/caught in the rain, xyz made them do it, stripping, and a hint of dirty talk.  And several others 'cause I'm me and apparently can't help it.





	breathe you in and eat you whole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lady_simoriah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_simoriah/gifts).



> So many thanks to [Interstitial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstitial) for her beta, and to the SPN Kink Christmas Exchange mods for setting this all up - I had a blast working on this and can't wait to see all the great treats that come out of it! I'm... really not sure how a 1k minimum turned into 10k, instead, but... I gotta be me. Lady Simoriah, I hope this pushes your buttons in all the right ways. ;) 
> 
> Feedback is love. <3

“Look,” Dean said, pinching the bridge of his nose against a headache, “I know we’re kinda friendly with Rowena these days, but are you sure you really trust her enough to let her cast a spell on you?”

“No,” Sam admitted. “Not even a little bit.” 

He was sitting with his hands folded between his knees and his chin tipped down, his whole body slumping subtly inward. Trying to make himself smaller, Dean registered. Feeling vulnerable, then.

Dean’s inner Big Brother Protector tried to shake off its sleep and rise to the occasion, hackles up. God, he wished he hadn’t gone out carousing, last night, the hangover was trying to kill him… 

“But if she’s telling the truth—” 

“That’s a pretty big ‘if,’” Dean interrupted, more gruffly than he meant to. His throat was raw. Not as raw as his eyes, granted, or his brain…

Sam’s face fell, and Dean’s hand twitched, wanting automatically to grip Sam’s shoulder in comfort. He held back; he almost always did. 

“I know,” Sam said, speaking to his knees. “But if the spell works the way she thinks it will, it could give us a huge advantage on hunts. Most of the creatures we chase can hear, or see, or—or _smell_ us coming from a lot farther off than we can them. This could do a lot to even up the score.”

Dean shrugged, admitting it reluctantly. “Yeah, but you remember when I was a vamp for a night? Having all that noise coming at you high-def all of a sudden, out of nowhere—it’s a friggin’ nightmare.”

“All the more reason to try it out here,” Sam argued, “where we’re safe. And anyway,” Sam added, “I’ll have you to take care of me and keep me out of trouble, right?” He flicked his eyes up, then, wearing that patented smile that was a mix of self-effacing and shy and admiring. The one Dean had never been all that good at saying “no” to.

Wasn’t like he was going to start now. 

Dean scuffed his heel over the floor, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Pain in the ass,” he muttered, but it meant yes, and he thought Sam brightened. 

“All right,” Sam said, starting to unfold his endless limbs to rise. “I’ll let her know.”

“She knows.”

Rowena emerged from around a corner, having (no surprise) been eavesdropping or scrying or whatever it was she did at times like this. She swished to the table, eyes down in feigned demureness. 

Damn, but she was trouble. Dean knew it in his bones, even if—well, even if it didn’t necessarily keep his head on straight all the time. Even when it was a good idea to trust Rowena, it was _never_ a good idea to trust Rowena, y’know? He cleared his throat and tried to make himself bigger and surlier looking by sheer force of will. “So, you know what you’re doing here?”

“Of course, my dear,” she purred. “Maybe not _every_ detail of the spell’s effects…”

Dean and Sam both looked up sharply.

“This isn’t going to be that attack dog spell all over again, is it?” Dean asked, glowering. “I swear to God, Rowena, if you throw this at Sam and he starts foaming at the mouth—” 

Rowena laid a hand lightly on his arm. “Dean,” she cooed, “you know I adore Samuel. I wouldn’t do the spell if I thought it could _possibly_ damage him.” 

Dean was reluctantly mollified, but he didn’t turn off the “WARNING” he was broadcasting. 

Rowena set her carpet bag up on the table and began rummaging. “This spell is perfectly safe. I’ve read a hundred accounts of it being used effectively, and it wears off on its own in…” She paused and consulted the book she’d pulled out. “…In just about two hours. It’s just not something I’ve cast myself, before, so I don’t know all of the effects it might have while it’s active.”

“‘Effectively,’” Sam picked out, looking between Rowena and Dean. “As in, the person it was cast on had heightened senses as advertised, or as in, the person it was cast on survived it intact?”

“Both,” Rowena said, delicately, but she kept her eyes on her book. Dean didn’t like that.

“Rowena,” he growled, all threat. “What aren’t you telling us?”

Rowena finally made eye contact, and something about her look left Dean feeling _seen_ in a way he wasn’t really comfortable with. Seen _through._ There was a knowing twinkle in her eyes. And she _winked_ at him, honest to God _winked._

“Relax, my dear,” she said, a little wryly. “Your Samuel will be perfectly safe, and we’ll both be right here to make sure of it, won’t we?”

She started pulling ingredients out of her bag, and Dean’s neck began to prickle, a shade of instinctive panic cutting through the hangover haze.

“Wait, wait—” Dean began, “just—wait a second. How about—cast it on me, instead.”

“Dean,” Sam soothed, reaching out for his elbow. “It’ll be fine, I promise.”

“Samuel is the better candidate,” Rowena said, primly, gathering bowls and rifling some of the cubby drawers nearby. “I wouldn’t advise attempting something like this when you’re already… how shall I put this… ‘sensitive’ to sensory input.”

To make the point, she dropped the bowl from about a foot above the surface of the table; the clang seemed to reverberate and bounce around the insides of Dean’s head violently, and he couldn’t hide his wince.

“I trust I’ve made my point,” she said, scanning her spell.

She had. Dean left, grumbling, to get himself a generous serving of pills, water, and hair of the dog. He did _not_ want to feel that way if something went down with Sam. He needed to be at least moderately capable of tolerating mayhem, and steady on his feet. He washed the pills down with a full glass of water and a few swigs of bourbon, and (wisely, he thought) brought the bottle back with him to the Crow’s Nest where Sam was now sitting attentive as a school boy, hands folded on the table. Rowena had already started her incantation.

Dean had to suppress the urge to grouse at her for starting without him. He couldn’t risk distracting her and messing up the spell somehow. But he could sure as hell read her the riot act over it later. For now, he hunkered back against the wall, quiet and watchful (if red-eyed), and nursed his bourbon.

He tried to watch Rowena, searching for any signs of misdoings, but his eyes kept sliding off of her and onto his brother. Sam just looked so goddamned _earnest._ His eyes were so watchful, so hopeful; Sam, eagerly sacrificing his body to save the world.

Even through the heaviness in his bones, the ache behind his eyes, Dean felt a little warmer and lighter. Watching Sam did that to him, sometimes.

Sometimes it made him feel—other things. Possessive. Twisted up. Half-crazy. Those times, he tried to get the hell out. Find a bar, find a girl—find a bottle and some willing pair of legs to open for him so he could dive in and drown the wrong. He tended to feel like shit after (take this afternoon, for example), but that was right, somehow, too; it felt like atonement, that way, like being purified by fire. Anyway, he figured it was less maladaptive than beating himself with switches or wearing a hair shirt or whatever else the crazies did when they thought there was something wrong with them. And Dean’s way was a lot more fun. Plus, when he got hungover enough, he couldn’t look at anyone or anything like a piece of meat; every appetite died. He couldn’t imagine how bad he’d have to get beat to feel that way.

This, apparently, was not hungover enough. In the flickering light of Rowena’s candles, Sam looked soft, glowing like Christmas.

Dean had acted like it wasn’t a big deal, but he’d been secretly thrilled when Sam had let him drag them out in his baby the night before to check out the lights of the crappy little town their bunker was tucked off aside of. Sam had played stoic, but one farm they passed had had the sweetest lights, twinkling and magical, and Sam had looked so young again, then, haloed in the reflection of lights on the windshield. Dean had ached inside to see it. And if Sam’s glittery eyes, bright with artificial stars, had still been there in his mind long after he’d dropped his brother back at the bunker, long after he’d downed four or five shots of whatever was cheap, and well into the process of banging a waitress on her smoke break, who was gonna tell? Who was gonna know?

Dean’s goddamned guilty conscience, that’s who. He sucked back another long swig of whiskey, hoping to dull the old ache, the pull that Sam always had on him, hooked down deep in his spine, but it never seemed to work that way. It just burned in his throat and cut a path of heat down the middle of his chest. More harm than good, really.

And there was Sam, watching Rowena at her work like he was memorizing it for later, open and bright with curiosity and nerves, and totally oblivious to his big brother’s guilty hard-on.

_Merry Christmas,_ Dean thought, bitterly, _I’m going to hell._

“Open your mouth,” Rowena purred to Sam, as if she had a line right to Dean’s libido. His face went hot. Sam obeyed (so Dean drank more bourbon, desperate) and Rowena dipped a finger into the mess she’d concocted, swiping it over Sam’s tongue.

_Two hours,_ Dean repeated to himself, _just have to survive for two hours to make sure he’s okay._

“Swallow,” Rowena ordered, low, and Dean’s hackles went up a little, again. But Sam just closed his mouth and worked his throat, making a face at the taste. Dean saw his opening, and while Rowena pinched out her candles and started packing away her supplies, he came over to the table and handed Sam the bottle.

Not just because he wanted to see Sam’s mouth where his had been. Not because he’d take another drink after, and drink in Sam with it. Not really.

Sam took it gratefully and had a short pull.

He sighed and wiped his mouth, handing the bottle back to Dean. “So how soon should this start to work?” Sam asked, shifting with restless energy.

“Any minute now,” Rowena replied, glancing up at Sam with what looked like caution while she tucked away glass vials and pouches. It kind of looked to Dean like she was hurrying to get the delicate stuff away. He felt the prickling over the back of his neck again.

Sam still looked… normal. He was looking around like he was staking out the place (Dean guessed he was trying to decide whether his vision was any clearer or not, yet), but nothing seemed to be jumping out at him. Dean watched him, but made sure to keep Rowena in his peripheral vision.

All of _her_ shit was off the table and safely tucked away in her bag, far against the wall, now. She wasn’t nearly as urgent about clearing away the things that belonged in the bunker.

“Rowena,” Dean said, and he tried not to make it sound too accusatory. (He was aiming for just ‘curious,’ but he wasn’t sure if it came off.) “What exactly are you thinking these side effects might be?”

He was sure Rowena’s look was meant to be innocent, but that _definitely_ didn’t come off. She said something about needing to rinse out the ceremonial bowl so it didn’t stain, and headed for the kitchens. Dean started after, ready to pin her to a wall as necessary, but Sam let out a small choked, “Dean—” behind him and he whirled, instantly on high alert.

“Sammy?” he asked, setting the bottle aside and coming cautiously closer. “Okay there?”

Sam flinched, but gave a small nod. “I—I think it’s starting,” he said, quietly, his voice low and tight. 

Dean cataloged him carefully, saw Sam’s Adam’s apple bob twice, saw his pupils dilating. His brows knit, and his eyes began to dart between Dean and the direction Rowena had gone, his nostrils flaring out.

Dean suppressed a smile as Sam started to frown, just a little. “Something smell funny?”

Sam swallowed, nodding. “Yeah, it… it smells like…” His frown deepened.

Dean feigned scratching his cheek on his shoulder so he could surreptitiously give himself the sniff test. He hadn’t managed to get a shower in since his night of carousing, and… it was pretty obvious. “Sorry,” he said, bashful, and took a couple of steps back.

Sam made an attempt at a smile, but his eyebrows didn’t unknit. “It’s okay, it’s not…” He coughed or grunted, then, shaking his head. “Not that. Not sure. Thought. Thought…”

Sam grunted again and rubbed his throat. His eyes looked inky, now, his pupils were blown so wide, and something was changing subtly in his posture. Dean couldn’t quite figure out what was different, but this… this wasn’t right.

Rowena was returning and Dean extended an arm out in caution to warn her off of coming too close. 

“He look okay to you?” he muttered aside to her.

She murmured back, “Downright yummy, if you ask me.”

Dean looked at her, startled. Sam was suffering (probably) from her spell, and all she could think of was—?

…But then Dean looked back at Sam, and suddenly it was all _he_ could think of, too.

Sam’s posture had turned loose and open, almost… almost predatory. His knees had splayed wide, and he was leaned slightly forward, his hands dangling loose over his knees. His head was tilted slightly down and aside, like he was tipping one ear a fraction closer to them, and he was looking out, unfocused, through the curtain of hair that had fallen forward into his eyes. He looked as though every inch of him was an open trap, ready to absorb, or snatch.

Dean wasn’t looking between his brother’s aggressively spread thighs. He wasn’t. Much.

“Sammy?” he tried, exceedingly gently, and Sam’s eyes swiveled onto him, but he didn’t respond.

“Sammy… Say—say something to let me know you’re okay,” Dean urged.

“Okay,” Sam parroted, but the sound was down in his chest. Now that he’d focused his eyes on Dean, they weren’t budging. They were barely even blinking.

Rowena ducked under Dean’s arm, sidling out in front of him. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on her knees like she was about to speak to a child or call a dog. Or maybe she was just showing off her tits under that snug layer of blue sequins.

“Samuel,” she said sweetly, “look at me, dear.”

Sam did, though it looked like wrenching his eyes off of Dean was giving him trouble. They kept darting back up. Dean could see the muscles in his neck working, his fingertips brushing through air where they dangled.

“Tell me how you’re feeling, Samuel,” Rowena tried, but Sam just grunted.

“Okay,” she said, patiently, “do you feel all right? Safe and sound?”

Sam nodded once, curtly.

“Anything you need?” she asked, and Dean didn’t think he liked the flirtation in her tone. “Anything I can do for you?”

Sam’s eyes fixed hard on her for a moment, then lifted back to Dean. His nostrils were flaring again, and his jaw was clenching, rigid.

“Rowena,” Dean said again in warning. 

It must have been a little loud, because Sam flinched, and Dean found his temper was rising. Sure, he’d made the sound himself, so it was kind of his fault, but he blamed Rowena anyway. He wouldn’t have snapped if it weren’t for her screwing around.

“Rowena,” he gritted under his breath, then, “what aren’t you telling us about this spell? Why does—why does Sam look like he’s thinking about eating us?”

Sam looked… almost looked like he was going feral.

“The spell might… have certain side-effects related to the super-ego and higher brain function,” Rowena whispered back, slipping a step closer to Sam. “To get the full benefit of our more animal senses, we need to let the beastly part out from under all of that pesky, civilized, tame nonsense.”

Dean saw red. “You—Rowena, if you did anything to his soul, I swear to God—” 

Rowena waved a hand back at him to shush him. Sam was looking increasingly agitated, and Dean thought of hungry dogs with matted fur and hollow ribs, pacing in alleys. “Shush, my dear,” Rowena murmured. “His soul is fine. Think of it as just… flipping the brain ‘round so the naggy little human voice is on the bottom, for once, and all the deep urges we normally suppress with it are on top.”

“And how exactly is he supposed to hunt like that?” Dean argued, low. He stepped a little closer to Sam, shifting to get out from behind Rowena.

“Can—still hear you,” Sam growled, eyes darting between them again. His loose fingers were curled tight, now. That looked like a warning, Dean thought. Sam looked barely contained.

“Of course you can, dear,” Rowena cooed. “Even when we’re whispering, I’ll wager.”

“And—” Sam paused, looking like the effort of speaking was a serious struggle, “can _smell_ you.”

“Mmhmm. You ought to try touching something,” Rowena said, reaching her hand out toward Sam, and that was such blatant flirting that Dean wheeled on her. 

“Listen, witch, you’d better back off, or I’ll—”

Dean’s words evaporated when he saw one of Sam’s massive hands reaching for Rowena’s tiny one. He half hoped Sam would crush her like a bug, and tried not to think about why he was quite this pissed about the whole thing. (She’d manipulated them—again. That was enough, right?) But Sam just pinched her palm between his thumb and forefinger, turning it over slowly. He was leaning closer, looking at it as if it were some indecipherable text, an unexplained artifact. 

Dean’s teeth hurt. Probably because he was grinding them. 

Rowena reached out her other hand, letting one fingertip trace down the tip of Sam’s nose, and Dean’s jaw began to ache. But Sam jerked his face back from her touch and dropped her hand abruptly. And looked at Dean, wary but… expectant.

“What do you need, buddy?” Dean asked, stepping closer automatically. Sam tensed, so Dean raised his palms to show they were empty, to keep them visible. “It’s okay, Sammy. Just me.” He scolded himself silently for talking to his brother as if he were a puppy.

Sam’s eyes flicked over to one of Dean’s hands, and back to his face, inching forward in his chair, and Dean frowned. Slowly, he offered one of his hands out, the way Rowena had. Was that what Sam wanted?

Sam’s eyes kept darting, but when Dean’s hand was close enough Sam snatched it in both of his own. His grip was tight, the calloused pads of his thumbs pressing along the grooves of Dean’s palms while he tilted it to and fro.

Dean laughed, startled. “’s just a hand, pal.”

Sam shifted closer, even so, but then his nostrils were flaring again, his jaw tightening and jutting forward. He shook his head slowly, eyes narrowing just slightly, and Dean suddenly felt it was very important to hold very, very still. He’d had eldritch black dogs look at him with less menace and tension. All Dean could picture was raised hackles, a coat of thick fur standing straight out on end.

“What’s wrong, Sammy?” he asked, soft as he could.

Sam huffed in several short breaths through his nose, and with each one his grip tightened, his expression darkening. Dean started to ease back, no sudden movements, but Sam lurched up to his feet, and into Dean’s space. “Don’t,” he said, through gritted teeth, and Dean froze.

Maybe it was like with the T-Rex in _Jurassic Park._ If he didn’t move, he’d be safe.

Sam still had Dean’s palm held tight with his left, but his right had snaked up to clutch the center of Dean’s shirt, flannel and buttons crushed up into a twist in his grip. Dean really hoped the not moving thing would work; if Sam didn’t decide to let go, it’s not like Dean would be able to get any distance between them without a very lucky punch at the least. Just in case, he tucked his chin down slightly to guard more of his throat; he didn’t want to know what kind of damage Sam’s jaw could do if he decided to bite.

Well. He did, but he didn’t, y’know?

To be fair, some of Dean’s better dreams had started this way. Not the part with Sam getting hexed into something sub-human, but the part where he got kind of wild looking and launched himself at Dean and looked like he wanted to eat him. (Dean pretended as hard as he could that those were nightmares, but he always woke up from them so hard it hurt, or with his hand stuffed down his boxers, more than halfway to a dazed, violent orgasm.)

Under Sam’s fist, Dean could feel his heart pounding.

“Samuel,” came a sweet, soothing brogue from somewhere nearby.

Shit. Dean had completely forgotten about Rowena.

“You may want to just, uh… get to a safe distance,” Dean muttered to her, chivalrous tendencies surpassing self-preservation. And good sense; he knew Rowena could take care of herself, after all, and might be able to help keep them all alive. And anyway, this was all her fault to begin with—

…Why the hell was he telling her to leave?

Dean was just about to take it all back when Sam shook him, hard, by the grip over his heart, and gave him a fierce little warning growl. Wisely, Dean let the words die on his tongue, swallowing at the lump of fear—real, honest to God fear—in his throat.

Something fiery and sparkly came into his peripheral vision, and one of Rowena’s delicate hands wrapped over Sam’s wrist. “Samuel,” she said, very softly, “sweet Samuel… Why don’t we let go of our dear brother, hmm?”

“Off,” Sam grunted, and the wiry muscles in his forearm flexed under her. Dean glanced up at Sam’s face, and saw teeth.

“We don’t want to hurt our brother, do we?” Rowena persisted. She let go of his wrist, but only to reach up and across to Sam’s opposite shoulder. When her hand crossed below his face, Sam jerked his head back slightly, as though repelled. It didn’t make him let go of Dean, though. 

“ _Off,_ ” Sam repeated, but he was at least looking at Rowena this time. Rowena, for her part, looked a little startled and… disappointed? Experimentally, it seemed, she lifted her hand toward Sam’s face, and he craned back and away, nose scrunched. 

Rowena withdrew her hand sharply, looking somewhere between offended and hurt. She sniffed her own wrist experimentally. Dean hadn’t been able to smell any perfume or anything on her, just that faint familiar smell of witchcraft, of wax and snuffed candles and old books, of incense lingering in her hair.

Dean thought it was kind of a nice smell, actually, but he wasn’t going to say that. Not right now.

“What, you… you don’t like her perfume?” he tried, hoping to defuse some of the tension.

“You—” Sam shook his head, visibly fighting to make his tongue obey. “You both—stink—” he said, but he wasn’t backing away from Dean like he was Rowena. Must be a different kind of stink.

“So, uh,” Dean tried, swallowing, “how ‘bout we all just go shower some of that stink off, wha’dya say?”

Sam was crowding up against him, and Dean tried automatically to back up, but Sam fisted both hands into the neck of his shirt, pulling him up short. “ _Don’t,_ ” he warned again, and it was so low in his chest, so rough, that Dean became painfully aware of how his jeans were distorting, crushing his dick against the zipper.

“Okay,” he said—or almost said, he wasn’t able to get a lot of actual sound to come out. “‘kay, Sammy. Not going anywhere.”

“I am,” Rowena muttered, mutinous. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be rifling through your lore and magical goods.”

Sam growled a warning, saving Dean the effort. “We’ll notice if anything’s missing,” Dean called after her, as she stalked off, anyway.

“I sincerely doubt it,” Rowena snapped, and was gone down some endless corridor.

There was a heavy, pregnant moment, with Sam bowing his head in at Dean, breathing slow and deep. Dean was starting to sweat under the scrutiny and nearness, and made another attempt at loosening the threatening coil of tension around them. “So this spell is a big ‘no’ for hunting.”

Sam nodded tersely, then butted his forehead lightly down against Dean’s. His hands were shifting on Dean’s shirt, loosening and tightening again further up, against Dean’s neck.

“Seriously, you—you could let me shower and it wouldn’t bother you as bad,” Dean offered, turning his head in the direction of the shower room to break contact with Sam’s.

“Stink—” Sam began.

“I know,” Dean interrupted, a little hotly. “Jesus, I get it, so just—” 

“—like a bar, like—like someone _else_ —” Sam went on, and now he sounded… angry?

Or maybe hungry.

…Or maybe possessive.

Dean’s skin felt like it was trying to rearrange itself en masse over his bones. His head was swimming. And then he was stumbling backwards, because Sam was crowding him again, but this time he was nudging Dean back as he went, piloting them both quickly and lurchingly toward the steps. Dean skidded, losing his balance on them, but Sam’s grip was unbending and didn’t let him fall, just kept herding him into the hallway.

“Sam, where—what—” 

Sam apparently didn’t feel the need to explain himself, but soon they were ducking in through a doorway. Sam didn’t get the lights—Dean guessed he didn’t need them right now, eyes as sharp as Rowena had promised even in the dim. But the ground sounded different under their shoes, squeaking on what had to be tile.

“Look, I said I’d shower,” Dean pleaded, hopping backwards on one foot to start tugging the laces of his boots open so he could toe kick it off. Thank goodness for the lights in the hallway; at least the shadows had some texture. “You don’t have to…”

…To what, Dean wondered?

His voice dried up in his throat.

Frantically, he fought to get the other shoe off, because Sam seemed ready to push him all the way under the showerheads. He did not want to deal with trench foot over this. He’d just hurled the second boot across the room as far as he could when he collided with the wall, Sam’s body melding flat against him. One hand must have let go, because the water hissed on beside them, but Dean had trouble paying that much attention, because Sam’s weight was pressing the air out of him, his mouth and nose down against Dean’s ear breathing hotly.

“Better—better get your shoes off if you’re staying, pal, or they’ll be nasty as hell.”

Dean was more than a little surprised that that made it out of his mouth. In actual words, with actual sounds. Not that it made a difference. Sam was just sinking lower and heavier against him, burying his nose up against Dean’s neck, nosing into the short hair behind his ear.

Some self-preserving autopilot nudged Dean’s hand out into the water, which was way too hot, hot enough it was filling the room with thick clouds of steam. Shit. He fumbled blindly with the dials until he could get it to something just south of scalding, and then breathed a little relief.

That died, too, though, when he felt Sam’s hips hitch up against his, and Sam’s— _Sam_ was hard against him, rigid enough to make him wince. And then Sam’s tongue dipped into the spot just behind his ear, and Dean’s whole body jolted in shock.

“H-hey,” he guttered, weak, as Sam pulled up just enough to make blurry, too-close eye contact, “that’s—that’s not—”

There was just enough space now that Dean could barely squeeze himself aside, partway out from under Sam’s huge frame and—partway into the water. Great. Dean’s sleeve and one leg of his pants plastered themselves to his body quickly.

As Dean’s eyes adjusted to the low light, Sam’s face was coming clearer into focus. He looked pained, but Dean couldn’t quite figure out at what. He tried to comfort him anyway, mindlessly, repeating, “It’s okay, Sammy, you’re okay…” 

“Not,” Sam disagreed, and his hands were tangling in Dean’s shirt again, desperate. “Hate it. _Hate_ it,” he hissed, shaking Dean roughly.

“I—I get it,” Dean said, though he didn’t, “but it’ll be over in a couple hours—” 

Sam shook his head slightly. “—No—when you—when you smell like—” Sam was grinding his teeth together, the muscles in his jaw working in a way that made something go hot and swimmy in Dean’s gut.

“Sorry, Sammy,” he mumbled, “I know, I smell like booze and sweat and—”

“—someone _else,_ ” Sam growled to cut him off, shoving into him hard enough to bruise, this time.

Dean felt like everything went still inside for a moment, like maybe he’d stopped breathing and his heart had stopped beating and his stomach had dropped out entirely.

Did Sam—was Sam saying—

“Only want to smell _you,_ ” Sam said, and this time there was no question. He sounded hungry. He sounded like he was saying _mine._

And just in case Dean had been planning on trying to think in a circle around it, Sam burrowed into his neck and hair again, swiping his tongue along Dean’s skin. Oh, and there was that erection in his pants. Hard to forget that.

Dean closed his eyes and let Sam muscle him under the spray, mind and voice abandoning him as the water began to sluice in under his collar and soak into his clothes. Sam was still clutching him and mouthing at his neck feverishly.

There was a little plastic plink when one of the buttons popped off of Dean’s shirt under Sam’s rough treatment. Sam was trying to work the buttons, and soon another button had broken rather than come loose. “Off,” Sam insisted, then, and Dean scraped enough of his wits together to reach between them (and he would never admit his hands were shaking) to get his fingers under the hem. The fabric felt suctioned against his skin already, and Sam wouldn’t back away to give him room, but he managed to peel it up to his neck and get his arms out.

Dean planted his hands on Sam’s shoulders to give him a firm push back, just so he could get the shirt the rest of the way over his head. That was all. But a growl was just beginning when the sopping plaid was clearing his ears. He tossed the shirt away, and before he even heard the sad, wet thwap of it landing, Sam had him wrestled halfway to the ground.

Instinct and thirty-some years of habit meant that Dean fought back before he could think better of it, knocking a knee up into Sam’s hip and overbalancing him. They hit the floor together but, for a moment, Dean was on top, and he grinned down at his brother, briefly triumphant. 

Sam huffed hard out of his nose and had Dean flipped under him, landing hard on the wet tile, in the space of a breath.

The dangers inherent in wrestling on slippery tile being what they were, and Sam not entirely in his right mind, Dean fell wisely still and held his hands up beside his head in a sign of surrender. He could be the smart one when he needed to be.

The effect was a little different than he’d intended, though. Dean hadn’t thought there was any way Sam’s pupils could have gotten wider, but they managed, and in a lunging instant, Sam was plastered closer than his shirt had been, pinning Dean’s wrists under his huge paws, nuzzling his face down into the crook of Dean’s neck and shoulder.

Sam was still dressed head to toe, but he was soaking through quickly, hair slicking into wet streaks around his face. The heavy, generous spray (one of the absolute best parts about this entire place, if you asked Dean) was landing around them hard enough that the drops bounced on the tile, surrounding them in a dancing cloud of water that glittered in the faint glow from the corridor. In Dean’s dizzy shock, it reminded him of the Christmas lights and how they’d sparkled in Sam’s bright eyes the night before.

“Sammy,” Dean sighed, confusion and guilt and thrill all warring for dominance. Sam’s response was a warm sound against his neck, and another deep, greedy breath in where Dean presumably still smelled only like Dean, and not like—Kirsten, maybe? Lindsay? hell if he could remember—and a light bite over his shoulder. Not enough to leave a mark, just enough to send a little jolt down Dean’s spine. He cursed under his breath. 

“Sam—Sammy, kiddo, you’re—you’re not yourself, okay? Maybe—maybe just—”

Sam’s teeth bit down slightly harder.

“But…” Dean protested, weakly. “You’ll—in the morning you’ll be so pissed, this—this isn’t you—”

Sam let go of Dean’s shoulder to growl right against his ear. “ _Me._ Always—always been me.” And he followed it up by pressing down onto Dean’s pinned wrists and rolling his groin down into Dean’s, purring, “ _Mine._ ” And while it still sounded possessive, there was something almost… sweet about it, too. All the same warm, fierce, adoring that Sam had worn guilelessly on his face for so much of his life when he had looked up at his big brother was there in his voice now, there in the way he tucked the tip of his nose into Dean’s sideburn, the way he pulled Dean’s earlobe into his mouth and worried it gently with his teeth. Even in the way, when Dean sighed Sam’s name again, that Sam’s hands went soft on his wrists and slid up over his palms, twining their fingers together.

Dean cursed again and untangled one of his hands so he could dig his fingers into Sam’s wet hair, tug until Sam was up and face to face with him.

There was definitely no doubt in his eyes. And what was it Rowena had said—that this would be all Sam’s underlying wants and urges, just with the “no” voice knocked out of the way? That meant this was all still Sam, right?

And with Sam looking down into his eyes like Dean was something he wanted so bad he could taste him, it was hard to believe anything else. Feeling broken painfully open, like something he’d believed was so important was crumbling apart to nothing inside of him, Dean gave the smallest nod and prayed for his own immortal soul.

He wasn’t sure who moved, then, but they were suddenly in a tangle of tongues and clacking teeth, fierce and desperate, consumed with delving to see just how deep each could get inside the other. Sam’s tongue was too long, somehow, threatening Dean’s tonsils, but that just made it impossible not to suck on it, hard, while he gripped at Sam’s hair tightly enough it must hurt. Sam didn’t seem to mind, just returned in kind by getting Dean’s other wrist back into his grip to keep it muscled down to the wet tile.

Dean wondered blankly if he was wearing a watch. Too late to worry about it now, if so. But Sam had on too many clothes, that was for certain.

Dean tried to free his pinned hand, but Sam made a menacing sound so he let go of Sam’s hair, instead, trying to get it in between them to start dislodging Sam’s shirt. It was still almost dry along the button band where it had been mashed against Dean’s body, but the movement diverted streams in along Sam’s ribs and over Dean’s belly. 

Sam didn’t seem to want to let enough space between them to actually budge the clothes, and when Dean tried to break away from Sam’s tongue, he got a frustrated huff for his efforts. On a wily impulse, he tried rocking his hips up into Sam, wrapping his free hand over Sam’s ass where the muscles were flexed and satisfyingly solid. Maybe he’d get the idea, then.

Sam groaned against his mouth, slackening just enough for Dean to get his tongue back to himself. “Wanna get out of these wet clothes?” he asked breathlessly, before Sam could delve back in, wielding the half of a pickup line without shame. 

Sam might roll his eyes at most of Dean’s lines, but there was no denying he’d had a good idea here. Sam nodded eagerly and sat back on his haunches.

Sam’s flannel and tee were gone in one rough move, peeled from his skin fast as a band-aid, and in the water he looked like something out of a skin rag, all of his muscles rippling and gleaming even in the low light. Whatever he’d felt for Sam in his darkest inner corners, Dean had never thought of himself as a guy who liked guys, but there was no denying the way Sam’s broad, rolling shoulders were working on him now. It rivaled the shots of girls in bikinis washing classic cars in every calendar in every auto shop ever.

And when the shirts were tossed clear and Sam was there, staring down at him from his knees, chest heaving with panted breaths, Dean thought Sam might even blow the calendar girls out of the water. Certainly none of those girls, whatever their smoky expressions and pouty lips, had ever been looking at Dean like this, all unbridled need and the implicit threat of barely contained violence, with a body that could more than back up the threat.

Dean stared.

Sam stared.

Without Sam to block the water, Dean’s jeans were getting heavy and uncomfortable fast, so he carefully pushed up onto his elbows, unable or unwilling to break eye contact. He shifted slowly up to sit, and finally up into a crouch before he started on his fly, slowly, like he was afraid something would break if he made any sudden movements. He darted his eyes down to Sam’s jeans significantly, suddenly vulnerable; if he stripped and Sam backed out, he was pretty sure he’d just spontaneously up and die on the spot. He wasn’t getting out of these pants, however uncomfortable, until he was sure Sam was following right behind him.

Sam didn’t hesitate. He tore at his belt blindly, like he was afraid he’d be left behind, and finally broke his predator stare to dig back at his shoes. Dean wasn’t actually sure anything was getting unlaced or unbuckled in the effort. Whatever Sam’s increased senses had done for him, his fine motor work was shot all to hell.

Frustration was building in Sam’s stance and breathing, so Dean crawled up close, muttering soothing nothings and shushing. He pushed at Sam’s middle carefully, trying to press him back to sit, and eventually, wary-eyed and tense, Sam gave. 

It felt surreal, kneeling in the hot spray of water while he dug his shaking fingers into the knots in Sam’s laces. All of the trembling in his gut, the heat in his brain, made it so he could barely process what he was doing, and he had to force his focus down onto the laces, to each tiny step, to keep from losing the thread completely. Short nails into the double-knot; pull the ends for the bows; wriggle a finger down under the crossed exes over the instep; pull the boot from the heel. Lather, rinse, repeat.

By the time Dean had thrown Sam’s shoes clear of the water (he was pretty sure one actually landed in the hall), Sam was staring at him with gratitude so raw it hurt Dean to see it, and he swallowed down at the uneasy lump in his throat and ducked his eyes. _Belt,_ he thought, desperately. _Just get the belt open._

Dean didn’t look up, then, just dropped the ends and popped Sam’s button loose (he figured Sam could work out the zipper). But then he couldn’t seem to make his hands cooperate any further, getting hung up on his own fly, suddenly clumsy and thick-tongued and dizzy.

“The hell are we doing,” he said so quiet it almost wasn’t. Flop sweat was gathering under his arms and down his back, somehow distinguishable from the spray of water. It felt like something cool was trickling down his spine, but from the other side, somewhere in the bones.

It felt a little like panic.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Dean whispered, barely even breathing. He sat back on his heels, full in the spray of the water, letting the pounding heat drive into his skull, into his tight shoulders and neck. He closed his eyes and wondered if it was possible to drown this way, and if that was morally superior to trying to eat your hexed baby brother alive.

Dean was a hair’s breadth away from spiraling apart. He could barely hear over the water and the pounding of his pulse in his ears. So Sam was more or less on top of him by the time he even realized anything had changed.

Sam’s tongue was gathering beads of water and sweat from his hairline, kissing wet and feverish and soothing over Dean’s brow, and his hands were closing firm and warm over Dean’s. Clumsily, together, they managed to get both zippers down, and the squeeze of his palms in Sam’s was somehow grounding, pulling Dean back into his body, back into this moment, back into the want and the warm and, more than anything, the abiding love.

Even apart from whatever he was sure must have been bent or twisted in his brain—and Sam’s, too, apparently—to make _this_ happen, he knew there was no one in the universe he loved the way he loved Sam. Or who loved Dean the way Sam did.

He was about a half a second from just grabbing his brother into a hug.

Luckily, he was spared the mortification of that by Sam shifting up to his feet to shimmy his reluctant jeans down his hips. He had to fight his underwear when they tried to catch on his only barely flagged erection.

(Why staring at his brother’s hard dick was less mortifying than falling on him for a hug like some weepy chick, he didn’t know and wouldn’t examine.)

Dean more or less forgot to finish stripping, in the face of Sam’s bobbing dick, and the dark thatch of curls around the base. Even the hard muscles of his thighs were captivating, his calves, his long feet, his slim toes. It felt bizarrely like watching a present being unwrapped, the dustcover coming off of a cherry muscle car.

Well, Christmas was just around the corner. No better time to unwrap packages.

Dean tried to whistle his appreciation, but there was too much water streaming over his face and it just came out as a wet sigh.

Sam still gave him a grin for it. He kicked the discarded clothes back a little but didn’t even bother getting them clear of the water, falling back to his knees, faithful as a supplicant. (What was needing a new belt to worship, anyway?)

Dean thought he was one more swipe of Sam’s tongue away from worship, himself.

The dig of the back of the zipper into his erection became aggressively distracting again when Dean’s dick pulsed eagerly. The way Sam gleamed when his shoulders broke back into the water was too much for it, apparently. He fumbled for the zipper and started prying at the layers, but all at once, Sam went rigid, and that earlier fierceness came back in full force. He looked dangerous, again, like he had when he’d smelled—

Oh. Lindsay.

(Or Kirsten, or Brittney, or whatever pop girl name it was. Whatever.)

“I’ll wash,” Dean promised quickly, shuffling back on his knees away from Sam, who was folding onto hands and knees to come at him like some kind of massive beast of prey. Dean tried to turn half away to work his jeans the rest of the way off, thinking maybe if he managed to get uncovered and partially rinsed before Sam got any closer he could cut off whatever—well, whatever this would turn into when Sam got a real lungful of waitress. Violence. Jealous rage, maybe.

He’d just got his jeans and boxers down past his butt and was trying to find his feet so he could step out of them, when Sam barreled him over onto his side. Big hands were pressing and dragging, then, mashing Dean down onto his back on the tile and yanking his pants and boxers the rest of the way off. He pulled hard enough that Dean slid a foot or two along the floor, yelping and undignified. At least it got his crotch under the spray; he scrubbed at himself under the water with one hand and tried futilely to reach for the soap with the other, while Sam did battle with the tangle of denim and jersey cotton around his ankles. But Sam was quick and had Dean pinned at one hip and one thigh before he could really get close.

And then Sam was—Sam was—

Dean wasn’t sure whether to be mortified or thrilled. Sam seemed to be trying to clean the smell of Brittney-et-al off of Dean with nothing but the water and his _mouth._

Dean dug his elbows under himself so he could stare down at that impossible, terrible, beautiful sight, of Sam angrily, jealously licking around the base of Dean’s dick, burying his nose in the auburny hair there to breathe in Dean and his one-night stand. Dean half wished he’d skipped on the condom, just so her smell would be spread over more of him, and not just around the root, but maybe Sam wouldn’t leave him hanging anyway. He could hope. He could even ask nice, if he had to.

Sam delved his tongue deep into the crease with his thigh, snuffling and coughing water when he got too eager. He pulled Dean’s balls into his mouth one at a time, drooling and rubbing with his tongue to suck the taste away.

Maybe it was just some kind of infectious hysteria, or maybe he was just paying more attention because Sam was, but with Sam acting like the scent was so huge and overpowering, Dean would have sworn he could smell it, too, his own sweat and cum and that salty-earthy smell of girl, even past his deodorant and the weird sweet almond-y smell of the fancy shampoo Sam tried to hide somewhere new every time Dean found it. (And rich in the steam, he was sure he could smell Sam’s hair beneath that, too.)

(For all he teased Sam’s hair, the smell of his scalp was like home concentrated into one spot, every bit as much as Baby was, with her smell of old car leather and oil rags, and Dad’s Brill Cream and bay rum aftershave.)

Sam spit and sounded bitter, the “good riddance” of it absolutely clear without words, but when he nuzzled back in, he made a deep, satisfied sound. Must have gotten enough of it off, Dean supposed. He started to reach to pull Sam back up from the water, wanting in spite of the filth of it to taste Sam’s mouth all full of himself and girl, but Sam batted his hands away, laving his tongue with more relish over the dripping head of Dean’s dick.

And moaning. Sam was tasting his precum and moaning. 

Sam covered his dick in sweet, short licks, and Dean tried to remember whether he’d really done anything to clean off last night other than pitching the condom. There must still be flecks of his cum, the smell of all of his own sweat and sex saturating the skin there, and Sam looked like he was vibrating to taste it (though maybe that was a trick of the water bouncing bright over his back). His eyes were almost closed, and he kept huffing in short, sharp breaths, curling his fingers hard and proprietary into Dean’s hips. He definitely looked animal, now, hypnotized by whatever he could smell (pheromones? would that be part of it?), content as a dog rolling in the grass.

Dean almost wanted to laugh. “Decided the shower wasn’t good enough after all?” he managed, strained but joyful.

Sam dug his fingers in a little harder, mouthing on the air like he was trying to find the words to explain it, but they escaped him. He finally just shook his head and engulfed the head of Dean’s dick with his mouth, and Dean thought maybe he understood after all.

Not like he was going to argue with that answer, anyway.

He had no idea if Sam had done this before (and was pretty sure he didn’t want to know). It was artless, and it was hungry, and it was perfect, all messy eagerness and heat, and Dean let himself collapse back to the tile so he could reach his hands up to Sam’s face, to scrape the rough pads of his fingers over his cheek and tangle in his hair, reverent and full of wonder.

“Jesus, Sammy,” he breathed, head swimming, and he was sure the bourbon had nothing to do with it. “Too goddamn pretty. How…”

Sam swallowed at him and the suck of pressure made Dean’s eyes cross and his voice fail. Strong fingers were kneading into his hips, and it hurt but good, and Sam’s saturated hair and slick skin felt like heaven under his hands. He felt like he was being consumed completely.

Dean was pretty sure it would take the threat of imminent death to dislodge either of them right now.

Sam was huffing breaths in through his nose loudly enough that Dean could hear it over the thunder of the water, now and then letting out short, hungry sighs or low sounds that rumbled through his chest and throat and buzzed through Dean’s flesh. It didn’t take a spell to ruin Dean’s grasp of language, after that. 

“Got—not long—” he babbled, feeling the warning pulse low in his groin. “Gonna—” he tried, shifting a little to try to get free, but Sam just doubled down, laying his weight on his forearms on Dean so he couldn’t twist away. That meant—Sam wanted to—oh, God—

Sam let out a low, wrecked sound when Dean came on his tongue, swallowing and suckling to nurse him dry. Dean’s hips twitched helplessly as Sam drifted his fingers shakily over Dean’s skin, and it felt like praise, like awe.

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean repeated, weakly, and tried to feed all of his own wild awe into Sam’s skin with his own hands. “C’mere,” he begged, partly because he was way too sensitive for Sam’s tongue to still be doing _that_ and partly because if he didn’t get his tongue on Sam’s he thought it could be fatal.

Sam let Dean fall from his lips and crawled up his body with a kind of drunken lurch, eyes glassy and mouth hanging open, rubbed pink. Dean didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more beautiful, and to stop himself from saying so, he pulled Sam down with hands grappled in his hair and around the back of his neck, licking up into Sam’s loose mouth.

Sam sank down on top of Dean heavily. He propped some of his weight on his elbows, but Dean still couldn’t really breathe with him there, so he nudged at him until they could tip over onto their sides, still nose to nose and kissing lazily. Sam’s face was saturated with the smell of Dean, of sex, and the sharp taste of Dean’s cum and sweat still lingered on his tongue, even though he’d apparently swallowed every drop greedily down, leaving no slick trace anywhere Dean could find with his own tongue. Dean thought muzzily that he could maybe understand now how Sam had felt when the combination of smells had suddenly overwhelmed him, earlier, rocked by the unmistakable presence of sex and lust on someone he wanted.

Dean reluctantly paused their kiss, curious from half-remembered nature documentaries at 3 a.m. _Did_ lust have its own smell? “Did you—could you smell that I was… wanting you?” he asked, trying not to sound as awkward as he felt.

Sam nodded, still looking drugged and dazed, but unmistakably pleased, some kind of animal satisfaction curling his mouth. “Knew you—wanted someone,” he managed, and flicked his tongue out over Dean’s lower lip. The silent tease of it made Dean want to chase it, so he did, trying to coax Sam’s tongue back into his mouth. 

A shiver knocked through Dean, more an aftershock than from any chill, but Sam still dragged him along the tile until they were both back in the spray below the neck, pressing their bodies together as close as he could and tangling their legs up to fit inside the circle of penetrating heat. It was so soothing and deeply warm that Dean let his eyes close and wondered if it would be so bad if he just drifted off right there.

He might have done, if Sam hadn’t started rocking his hips in short, shallow thrusts, painting an eager little streak of precum across the thin thatch of hair low on Dean’s belly. 

_Right,_ Dean thought, trying to blink himself back from the brink of sleep. Sam hadn’t come. And judging by the slick and the soft, needy whine he was beginning to let out against Dean’s hair, that wasn’t okay.

A burst of nerves threatened Dean’s resolve when he tried to sneak a hand between their bellies to help out, the twenty-some years’ habit of crushing down the urge to—well, to do something just like this—trying to muscle itself back into place.

_Don’t be a baby,_ Dean scolded himself, taking a bracing breath. _It’s just a dick. It won’t bite._

And anyway, leaving someone hanging when they’d just blown you was _not_ cool. Dean prided himself on at least being less of a dick than that.

Uncertain for all that he’d done this to himself a million times, Dean got a hand around Sam’s dick and gave an experimental tug. He found himself wading in the kind of virginal self-doubt he’d actively worked on eradicating since he was a teen; the angle was backwards and wrong, and there was nothing to grease the way, and would Sam even like it done the same way as Dean? Maybe he should get the soap, or try to get behind Sam, or ask—

But Sam let out a low groan and thrust himself into Dean’s shy grip, mashing their bellies tighter together so the underside of the head could still rub on Dean’s belly when it pushed through his fist. Maybe it would be different tomorrow (and Dean was starting to hope fervently they’d be doing this again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next), but at least for right now, Sam didn’t seem to care that there was no finesse or direction, or that Dean wasn’t really doing anything; he rutted against Dean’s belly like it was the sweetest mouth or best piece of ass in the state. 

Dean tried swiping his thumb up, but couldn’t really get much freedom of movement with Sam’s weight rocking into him. It didn’t seem like Sam in this animal state was really needing much of anything, but that didn’t seem fair, somehow, not when Sam had licked him like candy. He must be able to give Sam _something._

“Wish you could tell me what you like,” he mumbled, nosing into the wet warmth of Sam’s hair. “Tomorrow, okay? Just don’t—don’t go changing your mind on me before then,” he said, trying to make it sound light, joking, but he could hear the vulnerability in it.

Sam’s hips slowed, and he put his lips right against the shell of Dean’s ear. “Won’t,” he breathed, fierce, like a promise. “Ever.”

Dean nuzzled his face down into Sam’s neck, gratefully. _Ever,_ he thought, a little dizzy with it, and grazed his teeth over the wet skin of Sam’s shoulder. Sam jolted back into motion, then, so Dean tried it again, nipping and worrying at the skin with his teeth. Sam sucked in a sharp breath. 

“Like that?” Dean murmured, and there was no mistaking the sound Sam made for anything but a yes. “Yeah, me, too,” he sympathized, grinning against his brother’s shoulder.

Maybe there would be other things Dean liked that Sam would like, too. Maybe…

Dean closed his eyes, like that would somehow control his self-consciousness, and focused on his hands, on the feeling of Sam’s dick sliding fast over his thumb. “Jesus you’re big,” he whispered, a little mortified to be letting it cross his lips. But he knew the way it made him feel when someone said something like that to him. Especially when they sounded like they meant it, like they were a little worried about it.

Dean meant it. And he was more than a little worried about it.

“No idea how I’m ever s’posed to fit that thing anywhere,” he mumbled near Sam’s ear, lightly biting his earlobe. “Don’t even think I could get my mouth around it…”

Sam groaned.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Dean went on, taking that for encouragement, “I mean, I’ll try. You’ve seen me with food, I been training my whole life for this.” He thought Sam might be wearing a hole in his skin, he was rutting so hard, now. “S-say,” he tried, feeling his face go hot,“think I’ll choke on it, first time I try?”

The sound Sam made then was pained, desperate. Uncontrolled.

“Think I will,” Dean said, so soft he couldn’t even hear himself over the shower. But he knew Sam could hear him. One of Sam’s hands was slithering up, cradling the back of his skull to clutch Dean tight against him.

“Think I’ll choke on it but keep trying,” Dean breathed, “’cause you’d want me to, and I’d… I’d do anything for you.” He swallowed at the nervous lump in his throat, focused on how hot and needy the sounds coming out of Sam were becoming. “Anything you wanted. Even—even suck your scary-big dick, or let you get me drunk enough that you’d… that you’d be able to just bend me over that table in the Crow’s Nest.” That thought held real terror, but it still made Dean’s own dick try to twitch back to life under Sam’s rhythmic driving. “You—you gotta’ be careful with me, man, like I’m some little shaking high school virgin, ‘cause I’ll be scared to death but want it too bad to say no…” 

Sam came, choking out ‘Dean’ against his ear like a prayer, and Dean let out a shaky sigh into Sam’s neck.

Dean wanted nothing more than to drag Sam into a bed with some towels and pass out on top of him, but Sam was inexplicably still capable of movement, prying himself out of Dean’s grip enough to shift down along his body. Sam left small, fervent kisses over his chest and belly, then swiped his tongue over the spot that felt a little red and raw from friction, two or three times.

“Man,” Dean whispered, not sure whether to be scandalized or impressed. “Even your own?”

But he didn’t get a chance to say anything else, because Sam crawled back up along him, tilting Dean’s face up and sinking in close. Dean didn’t process what was happening fast enough to make any conscious decisions about it, so when Sam pressed their mouths together, he let Sam in.

Along with Sam’s cum, carried on his tongue.

Dean was pretty sure his brain short-circuited, then, overwhelmed by warring instincts (fight, swallow, spit, devour). And as Sam’s tongue lazily mapped the inside of Dean’s slack mouth, leaving that strange slickness behind, he remembered a hippie chick he’d laid half a lifetime ago, who had sworn up and down that guys tasted better when they ate less meat. 

Tentatively, as Dean sucked at Sam’s tongue, he wondered if Sam’s rabbit food and organic apples really were making him sweeter from the inside out somehow. He thought he might believe it.

Sam gathered him up, loose-boned, and braced him until they both managed to find their feet. While Dean twisted the taps shut, Sam made a face at his soaked clothes, nudging them out of the way with a foot.

“Worry ‘bout it tomorrow,” Dean said, wisely, and handed Sam a pair of towels from the rack where they were folded neatly before wrapping one around his own waist and another around his shoulders. “Whose bed?” he asked, skipping (terrified) past the part about ‘whether’ and right into ‘where’ before the nagging voice in the back of his skull could stop him.

Sam went still, beside him, and Dean was already starting to walk it back, “I mean, only if you—whatever—” when Sam ducked in to silence him with a kiss there was really no room to argue with. He didn’t pull back until they were both half breathless again.

“You pick,” Sam said, still with effort, but with unmistakable warmth. He squeezed his hair out in the towel that wasn’t around his waist before dropping it in the doorway to wipe his feet. 

The shower room was still full enough of steam that the cold wasn’t breaching the entry, but Dean knew it would hit hard the second they crossed the threshold into the corridor. He knew where he’d rather be (and where his robe and his thick socks were), so he took a bracing breath and started at a cowering trot for his own room and his own memory foam bed. He even managed to not look back to make sure Sam was following him. Well, not more than once.

Sam crowded him against his door, biting lightly over the back of his neck while Dean turned the knob to let them in. He was barely close enough to the bed when Sam gave him a shove firm enough to send him sprawling over the mattress, and kicked the door shut behind them again.

 

* * * *

 

Rowena tried to get her hair back in place and her seams straight. It was a bit tricky, since the mirror she was using was still a little fogged up from scrying.

Oh, well. 

_’The best laid plans o’ mice an’ men gan aft agley,’_ she thought, but all in all she found she wasn’t too disappointed with the course the evening had taken. 

Rowena rustled around the library until she found a reasonably pristine slip of paper and a fountain pen that still had any ink left. She bit the end while she decided what exactly to write, whether to mention which texts she’d pilfered, whether to lie about how she’d bring them back at another date. In the end, she decided simplest was best.

_“Happy Christmas, darlings,”_ she scrawled ornately. And tongue planted firmly in her cheek, she added, _“You’re quite welcome. - R.”_

She rang for a cab and let herself out, but not before she left her note right in the middle of the table in the Crow’s Nest. Presumably, they’d find it whenever Sam managed to sweet-talk a drunken Dean out of his last slice of virginity.

She didn’t think it would take very long.

**Author's Note:**

> So in case it wasn't obvious... Rowena was rather expecting she would be the likely target for Sam if she turned his caveman side on, and that was 100% her goal in bringing the spell up in the first place. I think she probably tried to seal the deal with some magically-derived stand in for pheromones that, er, didn't pass the smell test. But I think she enjoyed the show (via scrying) plenty--and very actively ;) --so everybody wound up happy. 
> 
> Remember that episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation when something made all the crew devolve down their individual evolutionary ladders, and Worf went all Beast Mode and carried off an inexplicably fishy Deanna Troy? ...Obviously, I do. So um. That should get credit for partial inspiration, here.


End file.
